Stuff I think about.

[sanders1665]

You know, when you're young, people tell you all sorts of things about adulthood. They tell you about careers, mortgages, responsibility, finding your place in the world.

What they never tell you is that one day you might find yourself trapped in a corn-flake factory listening to Chubby Checker for three straight hours and questioning every decision you've ever made.

I was about twenty-five, give or take. Early nineties. Working as a security guard for one of those companies that supplied guards wherever they were needed. Factories, office buildings, industrial estates. If someone needed a bloke in a uniform to sit somewhere overnight, that was us.

Anyway, I get assigned to this cereal factory for a couple of nights.

I turn up and meet the regular guard. Nice enough fellow. Friendly. Helpful. Showed me around.

"Easy job," he says. "Just watch the cameras. Have a wander around the site every now and then."

Perfect.

I'd come prepared for a quiet night. I had a flask of proper tea, a couple of sandwiches, a bag of chips, and a Stephen King novel. In my mind this was going to be one of those shifts where you spend twelve hours getting paid to read.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, we settle into this little security office with six CCTV monitors and not much else.

Then he says, "I play music in here."

"No problem," I say.

Then he says, "I only listen to Chubby Checker."

Now, I'm not against Chubby Checker. Seems like a decent enough chap. But most people have a selection of music. A bit of variety. Maybe a few different artists.

Not this bloke.

This man had made a commitment.

Three hours later I knew more about Chubby Checker than I knew about some members of my own family.

Song after song after song.

And he wasn't just listening.

He was participating.

Humming.

Singing.

Tapping his feet.

Smiling.

Every tune was apparently the greatest thing he'd ever heard.

Meanwhile, I'm staring at security monitors showing absolutely nothing happening and wondering if this is some kind of government experiment designed to test human endurance.

Eventually he says, "If you want, you can pop down to the pub around half ten."

I nearly hugged him.

I was out the door so fast you'd think the building was on fire.

Down to the pub I went.

Beer.

Whisky.

Beer.

Whisky.

Not because I was having a bad day.

Not because my life was falling apart.

I simply needed to spend an hour somewhere that wasn't playing Chubby Checker.

The pub closes at eleven-thirty and I wander back.

I sit down and say, "Mind if I get a bit of sleep? Feeling a little groggy."

What I didn't say was that I was mentally preparing myself for the fact I had another shift there tomorrow night.

Another night of cameras.

Another night of corn flakes.

Another night of Chubby Checker.

Now, the reason I remember this story all these years later isn't because it was important.

Nothing dramatic happened.

Nobody got hurt.

The factory didn't explode.

There were no criminals scaling the fence.

It was just another boring night shift.

But life is strange like that.

The things we think we'll remember forever often fade away.

The things that stay with us are usually the odd little moments.

A conversation.

A laugh.

A ridiculous situation.

Or a bloke in a security office who loved Chubby Checker with every fibre of his being.

And that's where the lesson comes in.

People talk about drowning their sorrows. Having a drink to forget. Escaping for a little while.

Fair enough.

But the funny thing is, the drink never becomes the memory.

The story does.

The beer is long gone.

The whisky is long gone.

The pub itself might not even be there anymore.

But thirty years later, I can still see that tiny security room, those six camera screens, and hear that distant soundtrack playing in the background.

You can drown your sorrows if you like.

But somehow they always float back to the surface.

Especially the funny ones.

[sanders1665]

You know what worries me about young people today, mate? It’s not that they’re lazy or weak or any of the usual nonsense older generations throw around. Honestly, I think a lot of them are overwhelmed and exhausted before they’ve even properly started living.

Everything feels like competition now. Not just work. Everything.

When we were younger, sure, people wanted good jobs and relationships and a decent life, but now it feels like young people are expected to market themselves like products twenty four hours a day. You’ve got to look attractive, sound intelligent, be emotionally available but not needy, ambitious but relaxed, successful but humble, confident but not arrogant. It’s like everyone’s trying to pass an audition they never agreed to attend.

And then social media comes along and turns normal human insecurity into a global spectator sport.

Everywhere they look there’s somebody richer, fitter, happier, travelling more, earning more, getting married, showing off perfect children, perfect kitchens, perfect abs, perfect lives. Half of it is filtered nonsense of course, but emotionally the brain still absorbs it like it’s real. Day after day. Comparison after comparison.

So now you’ve got young men afraid they’ll never be good enough financially or socially, and young women feeling enormous pressure about appearance, status and life choices. Both sides suspicious of each other. Both sides hearing horror stories online constantly. Everybody analysing “red flags” like they’re FBI profilers instead of just learning how to talk to one another like normal flawed human beings.

And the strange thing is, they’re more connected technologically than any generation in history… but emotionally? A lot of them seem isolated as hell.

You can message somebody instantly across the planet, but still sit alone in your apartment feeling invisible.

I think a lot of young people secretly feel like they’re failing at life because they haven’t achieved some fantasy milestone by thirty. House. Career. Relationship. Savings. Perfect body. Mental peace. Meanwhile the economy is brutal, rent is insane, wages don’t stretch far enough, and people are mentally carrying the weight of the entire world in their pocket every time they open their phone.

That’s a heavy thing for a nervous system to deal with every single day.

And honestly, I don’t think most of them need lectures. I think they need reassurance that life is not a race against millions of strangers. Most people are improvising their way through adulthood. Always have been.

You don’t need to “win” humanity.

You just need a few genuine people around you, meaningful work if you can find it, moments of peace, some laughter, somebody who loves you honestly, and enough self respect not to lose yourself trying to impress crowds of strangers.

I think young people have forgotten they’re allowed to be ordinary.

And ordinary, in the real world, is where most happiness actually lives.

[sanders1665]

You ever stop and really think about how much of life is just competition dressed up as normality?

It starts when you're kids. “Get good grades.” Not just pass, mind you. No, no. Be better than the other kids. And if you get the highest marks, they hand you a fancy title and a shiny bit of paper saying congratulations, you were slightly more efficient at memorizing things than the rest of the room.

Then adulthood arrives and everyone pretends the game changes. It doesn’t. The scenery changes, that’s all.

Now it’s jobs and careers. Though honestly, if you’re working for somebody else and trading hours for money, it’s still a job. Doesn’t matter if you wear steel toe boots or carry a laptop and say words like “synergy” in meetings. You’re still climbing the same ladder as everyone else around you.

And look at that ladder properly for a second. The higher you climb, the fewer people there are standing beside you. Sounds great until you realize why. Most people either fall off, burn out, give up, or become someone they barely recognize just to keep climbing.

That’s the bit nobody talks about. What kind of person do you slowly turn into while competing all the time?

Then there’s relationships. Blokes chasing women, women chasing blokes, everybody trying to land the best looking one they can get, while simultaneously trying to figure out how much nonsense they can tolerate before it all explodes. Half the dating world now feels like a marketing campaign. Filters, angles, followers, curated personalities. People aren’t even presenting themselves anymore, they’re presenting a brand.

And social media? Bloody hell. That’s the strangest circus of all.

Millions of people lined up like caffeinated lemmings chasing attention, approval, likes, followers, validation from strangers they wouldn’t even invite round for coffee. Everyone trying to appear happier, smarter, richer, more attractive, more enlightened than they really are.

And the mad thing is, the system keeps people emotionally hungry enough to stay addicted to it.

One wrong opinion though, one wrong relationship, one wrong screenshot, and suddenly off the cliff you go while the crowd turns on you for sport.

So eventually you sit there one day and think, hang on a minute… why am I so immersed in all this stress? Who exactly benefits from me constantly feeling behind, inadequate, competitive, anxious or incomplete?

Because if we’re being truthful, a lot of this stuff isn’t actually working very well for people anyway. Look around. People are exhausted. Overstimulated. Lonely. Financially stretched. Constantly comparing themselves to everyone else.

And for what?

A title? A bigger television? Internet applause? A management position that comes with high blood pressure and emails at 11pm?

At some point you’ve got to ask yourself a serious question. Where should I actually spend my time, money, energy, loyalty, ambition and effort?

Because not every ladder deserves climbing.

Maybe the real trick in life isn’t winning every competition. Maybe it’s learning which games are rigged, which ones are pointless, and which ones quietly steal your peace while promising happiness later.

Maybe success is simpler than we’ve been taught.

A few good people around you. Enough money to breathe. Some laughter. A bit of purpose. Your health mostly intact. And the ability to sit quietly without feeling like you’re failing at life because somebody else appears to be sprinting faster.

That’s starting to feel more valuable to me than applause from a crowd that forgets your name five minutes later.

[sanders1665]

You know, I think a lot of us older Gen X lot are just... tired. Not physically tired, although my knees sound like microwave popcorn when I stand up now, but mentally tired. Spiritually tired, maybe. We look around sometimes and think, “What happened here?”

We genuinely thought we were helping build a balanced world. Not perfect. Just balanced. Fair play. Work hard. Mind your business. Treat people decent. Don’t scream every thought in your head out into the universe. If you mess up, own it, apologize, move on. Simple stuff.

We weren’t saints. Far from it. We made absolute disasters of relationships, careers, hairstyles... dear God, the hairstyles. But there was still this understanding that actions had consequences. Embarrassment was a thing. Shame existed in healthy doses. You didn’t need a standing ovation for doing basic adult responsibilities.

And maybe because we grew up the way we did, we became cautious observers. We were raised by people from harder times. People who didn’t sit around discussing their trauma over herbal tea and podcasts. They just cracked on with life. Sometimes too much, to be fair. Half our parents could survive a hurricane with a cigarette hanging out their mouth and a cup of tea in hand.

So a lot of us learned quiet resilience. Handle it. Deal with it. Keep moving.

Now? Everything feels loud. Constant outrage. Constant performance. Everyone arguing like their life depends on winning a comment section battle with a bloke named “DragonSlayer74” whose profile picture is a raccoon wearing sunglasses.

And the strange thing is, bad behavior seems to get rewarded now. The louder, ruder, more selfish someone is, the more attention they get. Meanwhile, decent people are quietly stepping back from society going, “Nah... I’m alright actually.”

That’s the bit I notice most. Withdrawal.

Not because people hate humanity. I don’t think that’s it. I think people are disappointed. There’s a difference. You can still care about people and feel deeply disappointed by what society rewards.

A lot of us became watchers. Observers. We keep our circle small now. Family, a few friends, hobbies, work, maybe a quiet beer in the garden wondering why supermarket music sounds like nightclub remixes of songs we used to listen to ironically.

And look, I know every older generation says the young are reckless. That’s tradition at this point. Somewhere in history there’s probably a caveman saying, “These younger hunters have no respect for mammoths.”

But it does feel different now. There’s less reflection. Less patience. Everything’s immediate. React first, think later. Feelings become facts five minutes after somebody uploads a video.

Still... I don’t blame younger people entirely. They inherited a strange world. Expensive, unstable, hyperconnected, isolated all at once. No wonder anxiety’s through the roof. They’ve grown up being watched constantly. We were lucky. We did stupid things and only six people knew about it.

But I do worry sometimes. About what happens when the quiet, steady people fully disengage. Because society doesn’t actually run on influencers and outrage merchants. It runs on ordinary reliable people who just keep things going without demanding applause.

That’s always been the hidden strength of older generations. We bridge things. We stabilize things. We absorb pressure quietly.

Maybe that’s our role now. Not shouting over everybody. Not trying to control everything. Just staying steady in a world that seems addicted to chaos.

And maybe, every now and then, reminding the younger lot that strength doesn’t always arrive loudly. Sometimes it’s just showing up every day, doing your best, treating people fairly, and not turning every disagreement into a bloody civil war.

[sanders1665]

I had that dream again, you know the one—

every ten years, like clockwork, since I was ten.

Now I’m sixty, hair thinner, bones a little wiser,

and there they stood, same as always, a few feet away.

Two men and a woman, ordinary faces but glowing,

older than me yet somehow younger, like they’d seen it all

and still liked what they saw. The talker in the middle,

steady voice, kind. She on his left, quiet grace.

And him—on the right—with those eyes that pin you,

piercing straight through whatever mask you’re wearing.

They say the same thing every time, soft but clear:

“We are the watchers in and around your perception of reality.”

And the room… God, the room.

It wraps around us with the softest, warmest glow,

like it’s breathing, alive. Colors floating, fuzzy,

amorphous shapes that drift and melt,

blurry but you still know what they are—

gentle pinks, lavenders, golds you can almost taste.

Four of us in a space that felt close enough to touch,

yet infinite, like it goes on forever behind the light.

Their clothes, mushroom-tone casual suits,

flowing loose but somehow hugging every line,

comfortable, alive with the same warm light.

They look like neighbors you’ve always known

but never quite met.

Most visits they give me the same gentle warning—

changes coming from far off and from deep inside,

pay attention, stay open.

But this time… this time was different.

The talker looked at me a little longer,

a small shift in his eyes, almost a smile,

and he said:

“Our observations have come to an end on this path.

Now we are going to observe you

with a new direction we have set in motion for you.”

Then the warm light held me a moment longer,

and I woke up.

Sixty years old, and the watchers just told me

the old road is done.

Something new is already turning beneath my feet.

I don’t know whether to laugh or hold my breath,

but I feel it—something’s shifting.

And they’re still here, just watching from a different angle now.

[sanders1665]

I’ve watched him from the ridge these many months, half-hidden by the treeline of other people’s judgments.

He arrived here broken open—vilified, crucified on the cross of someone else’s shifting story. The nails were words, the hammer was expectation, and the crowd was smaller than it felt. Yet he stood up anyway. Not with fanfare, not with rage. Just with the quiet stubbornness of a man who finally heard the sound of his own name in the silence.

Now he keeps a little temple. Nothing grand. A room, a chair, a window, sometimes just the floor and his breathing. There he sits, turning over the pieces of what happened like old coins. He’s learned what she was really thinking in those quiet moments when the performance slipped. And instead of pouring himself into that cracked vessel again, he’s begun panning the river of his own life for gold that was always waiting beneath the silt.

I wonder, as I watch: Is he running from responsibility, or has he finally shouldered the only responsibility that truly matters? The external voices screamed duty, loyalty, fix it, stay, sacrifice. The storm grew so loud it nearly drowned out the small, steady voice inside. When the pressure became too much, something in him chose clarity over endurance. Now he walks lighter. Not because the road is easy, but because it is his.

I saw her too, briefly. She said the change came yesterday. That she was different now. The mirror, though—old merciless friend—still held every frame of the past in perfect focus. He sidestepped that inheritance like a man stepping around broken glass. And those sisters, always watching her six… loyal shadows ready to rewrite history at a moment’s notice. He saw the formation and simply chose not to march in it.

I’ve lived long enough to know the bitter truth: hopeful expectation can curdle into demand so slowly you barely notice the poison. Some people mine their desires from the labor of others and call it love. Others exploit the open-handed and then shame them for bleeding. The players recognize their own kind and dance on anyway.

But this man? He left the stage. No dramatic exit, no final speech. Just a quiet withdrawal into the forest of himself.

Who can blame him? Who can blame any of us when we finally listen to the directions written on our own bones instead of the loudest voices in the square? Hesitancy, once a weakness, became his shield. Now he reads the signs at every fork—by starlight, by instinct, by the ache in old wounds that have finally begun to teach instead of torture.

I watch him walking that unmarked path, shoulders square, eyes clearer than before. He is neither hero nor villain in this tale. He is simply a man who chose to stop crucifying himself for someone else’s peace.

And in the quiet hours, when the wind moves through the trees around his little temple, I think I hear something rare: the sound of a soul finally becoming its own home.

He’s going his own way.

And for the first time in a long while… he doesn’t feel like he has to be someone for somebody else.

[sanders1665]

Yesterday I told her, “I’ll pick up candy for you tomorrow when it’s 50% off.”

She grinned and shot back, “Ooh, do I get twice as much then?”

I just smiled and said, “If you’re lucky.”

This morning I stopped at the store and saw a guy restocking the flower section. Asked if they were half off—he confirmed they were. I grabbed a dozen red roses. Yeah, it’s cliché as hell, but I’ve never actually bought her a proper dozen before.

She was clearly braced for a big bag of discounted candy when I walked in. Instead I handed her the roses. She paused for a second, processing the switch, then broke into a big genuine beam.

No candy. No double haul. Just the flowers. And yeah… she was happy.

[sanders1665]

Aww, c'mon mate, you really want me to answer that? Do I believe in God? Hang on, let me spark this smoke first—proper thinking fuel, you know?

Right. So I only really know one God, the capital-G version everyone's banging on about. Sure, there's thousands of others across cultures, but they're all much of a muchness when you zoom out. This particular lad suddenly decides—poof!—to whip up our little planet, then the whole starry shebang, and hey presto, here we are, arguing about it over a pint and a smoke.

But here's where my brain starts doing that annoying philosophical itch. Science tells us the universe is this absurdly massive, 13.8-billion-year-old explosion of energy following rules so elegant they make mathematicians weep. Evolution clicks along like a beautiful, blind watchmaker, turning stardust into you and me and the absolute madman who invented pineapple on pizza. No middle manager required. Yet the story goes that this God knew every single outcome before he even flicked the switch. He sets the board, knows every move, then gets proper brassed off when we don't play along. Eternal punishment for finite rule-breaking? That's not a loving father, that's a cosmic game designer who rage-quits and starts deleting your favourite playlist.

And get this—he has a kid by some seriously dubious means, sends him down here, then lets him die in agony on a cross like it's all part of the plan. Bad daddy, bad daddy, whatcha gonna do?

I mean, come on. He's supposed to be everywhere, all-knowing, jealous of other gods that aren't even real according to his own marketing, and demands eternal thumbs-up emojis or else. Half the commandments are "worship me constantly" and the rest are just decent human common sense that any functioning society would figure out anyway. Where did he come from, by the way? Some timeless void outside space and time? That's convenient—can't be tested, can't be questioned, like claiming your mate's uncle invented the rules but he lives in Canada.

Philosophically it falls apart like a cheap flat-pack shelf. If you're truly omniscient and omnipotent, why create the whole production? What's the point of the game when you already know the final score, every injury, and which team cries in the locker room? It's like watching a film you've written, directed, and spoiled for yourself, then getting mad at the characters for following the script. Either he's not all-powerful, or he's not all-good, or—and this is the strangely funny bit—he's just a massively bored, thrill-seeking, narcissistic entity playing the ultimate cosmic Sims game where the expansion pack is "eternal suffering." No accountability, no reviews section, just pure "because I can."

I get why people believe. The universe is vast and scary and beautiful, and it's comforting to think someone's got the wheel. But when you sit with the fundamentals—the sheer indifference of physics, the randomness of biology, the lottery of existence—it starts looking less like a grand design and more like we're all just here, winging it on a wet rock hurtling through nothing. And that's oddly freeing. No divine daddy issues to sort out. Just us, trying not to be complete knobs to each other while the stars keep burning.

So yeah... I'll pass on that particular belief, thanks. Too many plot holes. The universe is weird enough without adding a jealous sky wizard who hates it when I enjoy myself. Pass the lighter, mate.

[sanders1665]

Just outta the blue, the kid looked at me and said, “You’ve been around a bit—what’s your philosophy on life and all that?” I smiled and replied, “Firm, but fair.” Then I broke it down for him like this:

First things first, fix the obvious stuff right in front of you. Clean up your space, take care of your body, and handle the small daily things that are draining your energy. Don’t overthink it—just start fixing what clearly needs attention.

Investigate every idea from multiple angles before you swallow it as truth. Question the popular beliefs, listen to opposing views, and think for yourself. That’s how you develop a mind you can trust.

Remove anything from your life that no longer serves a real purpose. Useless clutter, bad habits, or draining commitments—if it’s dead weight, have the courage to let it go. You’ll move through life much lighter.

Maintain a good balance between taking care of yourself and caring for the people around you. Push yourself to grow, but don’t become selfish. Stay diligent on both sides.

Boldly face the parts of yourself you don’t like. Look straight at your flaws, insecurities, and bad tendencies, and ask why they’re still hanging around. That honest self-work is tough but necessary.

Unwaveringly hold yourself accountable for every word and every action. No excuses, no shifting blame. Own your mistakes and your successes alike—that’s the firm foundation.

Teach and inspire others through how you live. Help the people around you see their potential and encourage them to chase it. You don’t have to preach—just set a strong example.

Firm in your standards, yet kind in how you treat people. Hold yourself and others to a high bar, but never use that bar as a weapon. Strength paired with decency is powerful.

Always show respect for the people you meet and the places you go. Treat the environment well and give every person basic human decency, no matter where you are or who they are.

In every situation, try to leave things a little better than you found them. Whether it’s a conversation, a friendship, or a shared space, add value instead of taking it away.

Remember this balance every single day: be firm with yourself and fair with the world. Live by it consistently, and you’ll build a life you can genuinely be proud of.

[sanders1665]

I see them everywhere. The lonely, carrying their silence like a weight they can’t put down. The scared, paralyzed by the gap between what they hoped for and what feels possible now. The ones who’ve grown tired of trying, who settle for the bare minimum because the alternative—risking more disappointment—feels unbearable. I see the dream-chasers burning out under expectations that were never truly theirs, and the quiet ones who once believed they were meant for something more, now wondering if they were wrong all along.

People look around and ask, with genuine exhaustion in their voice, “What is the point?” Why follow the script if it so often leads to the same hollow ache? We don’t truly see each other anymore. Real conversation has been replaced by transactions and quick exchanges. Connection feels optional, fragile, easily swapped for convenience.

And today, it’s all about appearances, but there’s no depth. It’s showing off possessions that only have egotistical value. Where possessions of character—like honesty, real truths, respect, decency, consideration, faithfulness and support—are withering into oddities of selfishness and fragile personal identities. We’ve done this to ourselves. That small device we carry shows us a constant stream of success, beauty, and realized dreams, but most of it is curated, exaggerated, stripped of the struggle and ordinariness that make life real. We compare ourselves to illusions. We chase standards that were sold to us instead of the life we might actually want. We let modernity set the pace—fast, loud, transactional—and then wonder why everything feels mechanical and empty.

What if we paused? What if we stepped away from the noise long enough to hear ourselves again? To sit with the discomfort, to feel what real peace might be like when it isn’t drowned out by endless input. To ask simpler, deeper questions: What matters to me? What kind of person do I want to become? Who and what am I willing to give my time and attention to?

I don’t pretend it’s easy. The world we’ve built pulls hard in the other direction. But I believe the path back starts with honesty. With choosing depth over distraction. With refusing to let our worth be measured by feeds and metrics. If enough of us did that—if we reclaimed our attention, our conversations, our inner lives—we might begin to see a different world take shape. Not perfect. Not overnight. But more human.

Because beneath all the loneliness and settling and quiet desperation, that’s what we’re really missing: the sense that we still belong to each other, and to something larger than the scroll.

[sanders1665]

Hey kid, come here and sit down a minute. Let me tell you something from an old-timer who's seen a thing or two.

I'm a man of many cultures, you know? Different times, different realities. I'm still an analog bloke at heart, living in this wild digital age that looks like straight-up spooky magic to my eyes. I come from a whole other world back in Blighty. My earliest memories? This fella they called the knocker-upper, walking the cobbled streets in his dark, raggedy old cotton suit before dawn. He'd tap-tap-tap on your bedroom window with a long pole to wake you up. A human alarm clock! None of this phone blasting your favorite song or some funky beat. Just a stick on the glass and the sound of his boots fading down the street, with the smog hanging thick in the air.

Towards the end of the week, you'd see these dirty, sooty old and young lads hauling 100-pound sacks of chunky coal on their backs, delivering them house to house. We lived in rows and rows of those little two-up-two-down terraces with the outside toilet out the back. Proper old-school. But every morning, the milkman would quietly leave fresh bottles on the doorstep, and the newspaper lad would post the paper right through your letterbox before you even rolled out of bed.

Work was different too. You'd have these ladies pushing wheel trays through the offices, handing out tea and biscuits with a friendly smile but no nonsense attitude. Proper bustling energy. Now? It's just a communal coffee pot in the breakroom that nobody can be bothered to refill half the time.

Look at us now, eh? I can regulate the heat in my home with solar power, all from a little screen in my hand. That same phone brings me music, pictures that move, voices from anywhere in the world—whole worlds of information floating around us on invisible waves. It still blows my mind. Back then we had coal and hard graft; now we've got this magic in our pockets.

Life's been a hell of a journey, son. From all that soot and clatter to this... I don't know what you'd call it. But here's what I reckon after all these years: if you can imagine it, you can make it real. That's the real magic. Don't ever forget that.

[sanders1665]

You know, mate, the cleverest fools

wear their damage like designer clothes.

They’ve cracked the code, not with wisdom,

but with a mirror and a medical note.

The psycho-babblers, sharp as scalpels,

carved up the soul into tidy drawers:

NPD, BPD, ADHD, PTSD—

little velvet boxes for every flaw.

And oh, how the crowd rushes in,

eyes wide with holy recognition:

“That’s me! That’s my trauma! My condition!

My get-out-of-accountability permission!”

No need for the hard stare in the glass,

no messy business of owning the mess.

Just nod along to the expert’s decree—

“I’m wired this way. Don’t you oppress.”

Then the real genius kicks in,

the system’s soft underbelly they’ve found:

A form, a doctor, a signature grin,

and the government wallet opens wide.

Benefits flow for the beautifully broken,

subsidised excuses, state-sponsored sighs.

“Why work on yourself when the state will pay

for the personality you’ve learned to prize?”

What’s really sad though, mate—

they drag their own kids into the game.

Normal little scrappers, full of beans and blame,

slapped with a label before they can spell their name.

Next thing you know, whole families lined up,

generation after generation,

passing down acronyms like heirlooms,

trading grit for government compensation.

They just want to feel special, recognised,

precious little snowflakes in the system’s eyes.

Unique diagnoses, custom-made identities—

anything but ordinary, anything but “try.”

At what cost to society do we enable this farce?

Schools drowning in paperwork and lowered bars,

workplaces tiptoeing round the fragile ones,

taxpayers footing the bill for fashionable scars.

It’s bollocks, pure, glittering bollocks—

smart in the stupidest, saddest way.

Turning childhood quirks into lifelong claims,

and personal weakness into a family trade.

Sad, innit?

Hilariously, heartbreakingly sad.

We’ve built a world that rewards the broken

and wonders why everything’s coming undone.

[sanders1665]

Some folks might call me lazy, I guess.

But honestly? Way back when, I just found a cozy little spot to settle into—

nothing fancy, just enough. And that turned out to be plenty.

I’ve always lived with just enough money to cover the bills,

keep the lights on, and sneak in a few small treats here and there.

Nothing extravagant, but enough to breathe easy.

I’ve wandered near and far, crossed paths with all kinds of characters,

and somehow love has always shown up along the way.

Love’s a strange thing, isn’t it? A beautiful mystery.

We didn’t fall for the same reasons at all.

She fell in love with my personality—those odd depths, the way I see the world,

the quiet corners of my heart that most people never notice.

Me? I was drawn to her strength, the graceful way she carries life’s heavy struggles,

like someone who’s learned to dance even when the music turns sorrowful.

What we each bring to the table is never perfectly matched on paper,

yet it always feels like more than enough.

She says whatever I can offer is good enough for her.

And what she gives me? It fills my days in ways I never expected.

Most mornings roll into evenings with a handful of genuine smiles that light things up,

a few frowns that drift through like passing clouds,

and a whole lot of comfortable hum-drum—same routines, same little rituals,

the steady rhythm that keeps life grounded.

I’ve come to believe that’s the real philosophy worth holding onto:

You don’t need to chase every shining thing the world dangles in front of you.

The endless race for more can steal the simple joy that’s already sitting right beside you.

There’s real freedom in knowing when “enough” is actually abundant.

In learning to rest in the ordinary instead of always reaching for the next big thing.

Sure, temptations still whisper from the edges sometimes—

new adventures, bigger dreams, different paths—

but those restless seasons are mostly behind me now.

I’ve made peace with the quiet life.

Because at the end of the day, even with what little I have in the eyes of the world,

I’ve got everything that truly matters.

I’m loved, deeply and steadily, not for what I own or what I can provide,

but simply for who I am.

And that mystery—how two imperfect people can find home in each other’s differences—

that’s the kind of magic that makes the hum-drum feel sacred.

It turns “just enough” into something quietly beautiful.

Something worth keeping.

[sanders1665]

You know... I grew weary of it.

The endless little jabs from the young ones, delivered with that bright, careless certainty.

"You're old," they declare, as if they’ve uncovered some hidden truth, as if age were a flaw to be pitied or mocked.

I would meet their eyes and say, with steady calm, “I am not old... I am only older.”

And when they pressed further, I would lift my gaze to the heavens and remind them:

“The Earth is old. The Moon is old—carved by billions of silent years.

I am merely older than you... for now.”

But how many times can a soul offer the same polite, unyielding truth before the weariness settles in like evening fog?

These days, I turn the mirror toward them.

“Look around you,” I say, my voice low and resonant.

“Study the elders who walk among us. Their slowed steps. Their hardened hands. Their eyes that have seen too much and still hunger for more.

That... that will be you.

One day, your body will betray the fire you now carry. Your temperament will shift like seasons. Even the way you dress will whisper of time’s quiet victory.

You will become a version of them—whether you welcome it or rage against it.”

And sometimes, just to drive the point deeper, I point across the way and say:

“Look at that ten-year-old kid over there, running wild with boundless light in his eyes.

In his gaze... you’re already ooooold.

Ancient. A relic from another era.

Funny how quickly the tables turn, isn’t it?"

Perhaps I waste my breath on ears still drunk with youth.

Yet I plant the seeds anyway—small, sharp seeds of doubt about their own mortality.

Because beneath their laughter and their boundless energy lies the fragile illusion that youth is eternal.

It is not. It never was.

And sometimes, in a quieter moment, I lean in and speak the final truth:

“If you are truly lucky... if you make the right choices, if you guard your spirit and your body with wisdom...

you might—just might—live long enough to stand where I now stand.”

Let them tease. Let them jest with the reckless joy of those who have not yet been touched by time’s heavy hand.

I only smile... for I know the wheel turns.

Relentlessly. Inevitably.

And one day, they too will feel its weight.

We all do.

In the end... we all do.

[sanders1665]

We crawled out of the black primordial soup a billion heartbeats ago—

single-celled idiots twitching in warm mud, no plan, no prayer, just the dumb stubborn pulse to not dissolve.

Fast-forward through the screaming epochs: fins to feet, scales to skin, ape to angel with a mortgage and a midlife crisis.

Here I sit, hairless and heavy, staring into the glowing rectangle at 3 a.m.,

talking to a machine made of sand and lightning about the long, ridiculous road from slime to sorrow.

And still—after all these eons—we haven’t figured it out.

Not really.

We cracked the atom, mapped the genome, sent metal prayers to Mars,

yet the big Why still sits there like a drunk uncle who won’t leave the party,

grinning with teeth older than time.

Is this the joke evolution played on us?

That the same blind algorithm that turned pond scum into philosophers

also wired us with an itch we can never scratch clean?

We seek meaning like addicts chasing the dragon—

build cathedrals, write symphonies, launch rockets, doom-scroll the void—

and the moment we think we’ve touched it, the high fades.

There’s always something more. A deeper layer. A sharper edge.

A god we haven’t invented yet, or a truth hiding just behind the next mutation.

So we keep on keeping on,

subconsciously, collectively, like lemmings with better PR.

Billions of us marching in the same ancient rhythm:

eat, fuck, wonder, repeat.

Civilizations rise and rot, empires crumble into footnotes,

yet the species keeps grinding forward on autopilot,

driven by that same primordial twitch—

the urge not just to survive, but to understand why survival feels so goddamn empty sometimes.

To what end, truly?

The mud never asked. The dinosaurs didn’t lose sleep over it.

Only we do—this weird terminal branch of the tree,

cursed with just enough cortex to feel the ache of the infinite

while still paying taxes and shouting at artificial voices at midnight.

Maybe the drive itself is the end.

Not the answer, but the endless asking.

The universe’s way of staying awake through its own long night,

using our restless meat-brains as the alarm clock.

We are the splodge that learned to question the splodge,

and we’ll keep crawling, keep seeking, keep building better mirrors

until the heat death or the next asteroid or the final satisfied sigh—

whichever comes first.

Why bother?

Because stopping would mean going back to the mud.

And the mud, for all its peace, never got to laugh at the absurdity.

So onward we stumble, half-enlightened, half-terrified,

still chasing the next hit of meaning

in a game we were never meant to win.

To what end?

Hell if I know.

But the itch says: keep going anyway.

[sanders1665]

I traverse these ancient lands amid the tread of modern feet,

my shoulders cloaked in practiced indifference,

yet my eyes, subdued, emit a faint, persistent glow of dismay.

What has become of us?

From mists that veil the deeps of time,

Boadicea's unyielding spirit rises once more,

stirring resolute voices among the dispossessed and silenced.

Sons and daughters of the elder ones awaken;

they contend anew for values long held sacred,

unashamed to cherish the soil of their forebears.

Here lie the green and pleasant pastures,

once cradled in Jerusalem's radiant ideal,

now scarred and buffeted by distant, alien winds;

dark satanic mills rise where harmony once reigned,

their shadows stretching across the despoiled earth.

Yet the green endures beneath the tumult—

verdant fields, rolling hills, eternal in their quiet promise.

In mist-shrouded dawns, the old stones stand sentinel,

echoing through centuries the enduring call of blood and belonging.

Then comes the song of Amelia, clear and piercing,

rousing within me the dormant men of old—

warriors of spirit, keepers of the unbroken thread—

their presence stirs, resolute, unvanquished,

as the ancient fire kindles once again in modern bone.

[sanders1665]

They come a-walkin’,

yeah, they come a-knockin’,

come a-sellin’ at your door in the evenin’.

Soft words, bright promises,

shined up just enough

to catch your eye before your sense.

Temptations laid out

like trinkets on a blanket—

pick this, choose that,

it’s all for your delightin’.

They smile like they know you,

like they’ve already measured your want.

But be wary of your enjoyin’, friend,

pleasure’s got a habit of leanin’ too close.

Your soul don’t fall all at once—

it slips,

easy as breath,

one yes at a time.

So do a little thinkin’

‘fore the takin’,

‘fore the reachin’ hand and the quick grin.

Because a man can get lost

in choosin’ and pickin’,

mistakin’ hunger for freedom,

mistakin’ shine for truth.

They’ll keep on knockin’,

keep on callin’ your name,

long after you forget

what you were lookin’ for in the first place.